Politics in the Iron Hell
by balrogthane
Summary: Just a look into what day-to-day life may have been like in Morgoth's Angband. PUT ON HOLD WAITING FOR IDEAS


Disclaimer  
  
Apparently, these things are important. So I'll just stick this at the front of every story I put out here: this story is not for money ! I am not going to get anything for it ! That should be obvious, seeing as it's here on FF.net, but if it isn't then this makes it clear.  
  
All right, as to ownership-- I own Glimrat, and no-one else right now. I do NOT own any of the other characters, nor do I own Lord of the Rings, nor do I own any rights to it! There.  
  
Now you can read the story. :-)  
  
-(----  
  
Gothmog groaned. The Orc underling eyed him with distinct apprehension-- visions of the last bearer of unpleasant news to the Lord of Balrogs, and his decidedly nasty fate, were steadily taking control of his mind's eye. Though required by law to remain until given new orders, he felt about ready to run; maybe no-one would care. The Demon just stood there, head in his hands. The Orc edged toward the door, then stopped as Gothmog raised his head, glared one last time at the message, then incinerated it in his hand. He idly shook the ashes out and turned his black gaze to the sweating, trembling snaga.  
  
The mindspeech came, as burning hot as ever. [Is that all?] The Orc twitched and squeaked an incomprehensible response. Gothmog narrowed his eyes, contemplated igniting the slave as well-- but he wasn't really in the mood. He waved his hand, and the thrilled Orc lost not a second fleeing the deep chamber. Gothmog turned back to his private quarters and shut the door despondently.  
  
Gorthaur was at it again. This time it was a formal dinner, in two nights. The Maia had always been setting himself over Gothmog, posturing and positioning even before they had come to Arda, and this dinner was just more of the same.  
  
Gothmog groaned aloud, again. What an abysmal way to spend a night: detecting and disarming Gorthaur's snide potshots at him, and trying to get some back. And of course he wouldn't have anyone there who would be on his side. Gorthaur, one of those pampered werewolves of his, some strange name that Gothmog guessed belonged to a vampire, and him. Doubtless he'd get some of the tired old jokes about smoking inside and such.  
  
He cast himself down on the specially-engineered bed, careful not to land on a wing, and stared at the stone ceiling. Maybe if he set out on an Elf-hunting trip, all alone... yes, he'd feel better after some battle. Maybe he'd even get killed: that might not be as bad as the dinner. He smiled slightly, it wasn't that bad. He'd get it over with and might even come through the night relatively unscathed.  
  
Ignoring or refusing the request was not really an option. Melkor wasn't too keen on his servants squabbling amongst themselves, and Gothmog knew he needed to 'build bridges' with Gorthaur. No, he'd have to go through with it. But to take his mind off that right now...  
  
He heaved himself up off the bed and trotted from the room. As a Balrog, only about 60% of Angband was actually open to him-- he was too big for those Orc warrens. Right now he was headed down, to the nearest armory. His armor was getting a bit tight, lately, and his sword needed some work done to it due to heat stress.  
  
He really wished there was some way for him to use a different weapon, one that didn't have trouble with supernatural fire, but as far as he knew there was nothing for it; he'd just have to keep getting his sword replaced every few centuries. Now here was the low door to the forge, the next would be the armory.  
  
He stuck his head in at the door to find Glimrat on duty again. He was stunted, even for an Orc, but his skill at repairs was quite high. Gothmog sent an imperious mindcall and waited for the snaga to come.  
  
"My lord," he rasped, bending before the Balrog. "Sword?"  
  
[As usual.] Gothmog was almost on friendly terms with the little blacksmith. Glimrat was good enough at his work to be somewhat exempt from the generally thoughtless killing of even vaguely displeasing Orc servants, and smarter than the rest of the crowd besides; he'd repaired this sword many a time already. The Balrog grimaced slightly, recalling just how many times, and handed the sword over.  
  
Glimrat deftly twisted it around so he could drag it by the handle and not damage the cutting edge. He also managed to bow while holding up one end of a hunk of metal that weighed more than he did.  
  
"Two hours." Gothmog grunted his pleasure and left. In the armory, Glimrat set about inspecting the sword for the bad, worse, and worst areas, then dragged it into the forge to work. 


End file.
